


Pull Over

by Katana_Black



Series: detroit become deviant [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angry Nines, Badass Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Blink and You Miss It HankCon, Bottom Gavin Reed, Bromance, Choking, Crack, Dressed to the nines, Emotional Slow Burn, Explicit Language, First Time, Gavin Reed Redemption, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Machine Nines, Masturbation, Naked Cuddling, Nines does Detroit, Smoking, Top Nines, Voyeurism, boys in makeup, deviant nines, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 17:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18254600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katana_Black/pseuds/Katana_Black
Summary: RK900 takes 0.8 seconds to compile a short list of the most prevalent activities which would require a person's express consent. Some of the list's contents make him pause. “Will you directly harm my body?” he asks.“Absolutely not.”“Do you intend to dismember or disembowel me in any fashion?”“Fuckin—no,” Gavin says.“Do you intend to upload software that would be detrimental to my systems?”“No.”RK900 shrugs. “Then I will comply,” he says.In which an undeviated RK900 is paired up with Gavin Reed, Gavin Reed is Not Pleased™ with that situation, and Gavin Reed takes steps to rectify said situation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey. so. we haven't written anything in like...a year? probably more. this is us jumping back into the saddle. sorry if it's shit and you waste your time reading it. but we tried. we've also never written in present tense before, trying new things, ayyyy. so let us know how it reads.
> 
> we love a good bromance. the bromance will be real.
> 
> projecting onto the characters? what who us? why NEVER  
> (there is so much projection in this fic we're so sorry)
> 
> we also took some liberties with some head canons (corrections: we took a LOT of liberties with headcanons)
> 
> this whole thing would probably be better off as a twitter thread but we don't know how to do that so here you go
> 
> we don't know how y'all do all that cool shit with the drippy letters and all so have some strikethrough text
> 
> if you couldn't tell, we can only write dialogue. sorry about the lack of descriptive text but we pretty much assumed if you're here, you know.
> 
> yell at us in (virtual) person on twitter: [fight us](https://twitter.com/Kombat_Ready/)
> 
> *Do not take this story overly seriously. It is not a serious story by any stretch of the imagination. It is a purely self-indulgent work based on a random thought we had (probably inspired by the porn riddled abyss that is TJ) where RK900 gets deviated by the power of dat ass.
> 
> It's unbeta'd, so let us know if you find any errors. Also, let us know if we need more tags, cause this tagging thing is really testing our creative writing abilities.
> 
> It's just fun, guys. Just enjoy it.*

_Episode One: Pull Over, Dat Ass Is Too Fat_

 

**December 11 th, 2038 **

**Detroit, MI**

**07:32**

 

“You shouldn't be nervous,” Connor says for the fourth time since they've entered Hank's vehicle. His dark brown eyes flicker towards the rearview mirror, aiming to catch RK900's icy blues. They've been on the road for 10.4 minutes. The repetitious phrase is beginning to flag itself in RK900's mind, a tiny little counter in the corner of his visual array.

“I'm not nervous,” he replies placidly. “Androids don't have the capacity to be nervous.”

Connor nearly rolls his eyes, but refrains. The quarter skipping silently between his fingers keeps him sufficiently occupied. “Factory fresh androids don't,” he says, “but deviants do.”

RK900 gives a tiny smile from the back seat. “And I'm not a deviant,” he points out helpfully. A new analytical notification in his array gives him a conversational option. “Perhaps you're projecting your own feelings onto me?”

Hank interjects at this point, giving an involuntary snort of amusement. “He's got you there, Con,” he says, tipping his head.

Connor's optical camouflage provides a blush over his skin. He's mildly embarrassed, RK900 notes. “I—it's just—I mean—” Connor sighs, and the quarter stills between his fingers, disappearing into a pocket on the inside of his lapel. “It's _Gavin_.” 

At the mere mention of the name, a torrent of data flitters through RK900's mind, dancing across his display.

 

[REED, GAVIN

Birth-date: October 7 th , 2002

Height: 5' 9”

Weight: 176 lbs

Eye Color: Brown

Hair Color: Brown

Age: 36 years

Known Aliases: None

Occupation: Detroit Police Department Detective, Homicide Division

Criminal Activity: None]

 

Behind the stark facts replays all the memories Connor had deemed relevant for sharing; the ones from their first encounters, where Detective Reed is openly and unabashedly hostile towards Connor, even going so far as physical assault; to the ones only a month prior, where a red-eyed Gavin privately begs forgiveness from Connor himself after the revolution's success.

(“I didn't—I couldn't—when they—I _saw me in them_ at the—and once I realized he was _right_ , you have the capacity to be living, _feeling_ beings—Connor, I'm so sorry—”)

That part of the memory is slightly broken up. It cuts in and out as if Connor didn't mean to transfer all of it, but only the sentiment. RK900 thinks he understands all the same. Gavin Reed is not a nonredeemable individual; Gavin Reed is _decent_.

In the 2.8 seconds RK900 takes to review his information on [Reed, Gavin], Hank acquiesces, “Yeah, you maybe have a point there. Buddy wouldn't work with an android if his life depended on it.”

“I understand your trepidation,” RK900 states, “but I assure you. I am more than equipped to handle whatever Detective Reed may throw my way, so to speak.” He's the most advanced prototype Cyberlife has ever built. If he can't handle one single, surly human, then he deserves to be deactivated.

Hank outright laughs at this. “Famous last fuckin' words,” he chuckles. “Just remember we're always here for you if he gets to be too much, alright?”

Connor nods his assent. “Don't be—”

“Nervous?” RK900 finishes for him, predicting yet another iteration of the phrase. His analysis of Connor's subsequent slump in body posture implies his success.

Connor sighs, and fishes his coin back out of his pocket.

 

**December 11 th, 2038**

**Detroit Police Department, Precinct 3**

**07:59**

 

Detective Gavin Reed and Officer Tina Chen arrive at the precinct right on time, separately but strolling through the doors together, coffees already in hand. Gavin with his cup of honey soy latte from some hole in the wall coffee shop, Tina with whatever the latest monstrosity Starbucks has managed to come up with (Dream Cream Cloud Macchiato? Cream Me Macchiato, that's definitely it), both of them bemoaning the morning hours.

As soon as he passes those glass doors, though, Gavin's entire demeanor sinks through the floor. Connor is fiddling with his quarter, sitting on the corner of a desk— _his_ desk. 

“Fuck,” Gavin mutters sharply under his breath. This does not bode well.

He makes his way over, Tina trailing just a bit behind him (because God forbid she miss any drama), but before he can even make a single derogatory comment, Connor pipes up.

“Good morning, Detective Reed,” he says, popping up from his perch, pocketing the coin, and arranging himself into his usual perky position.

Gavin only glances around himself. “Hey, T, why didn't you introduce me to the new officer?” he asks.

Tina is entirely confused. “Huh?”

“Well, there must be another Detective Reed around here now, cause I sure as fuck know that sentient toaster isn't talking to _me_ ,” he states.

Tina snorts compulsively but still admonishes her friend. “Gav, you can't just fuckin' say stuff like that anymore,” she warns.

But Gavin's already waiting for the android's sharp retort. Connor's been getting a lot better at it lately—Gavin suspects Hank's been giving him pointers, cheater—but Gavin vastly prefers the android with a little bite to him, even if it is coached.

Connor, for once, doesn't say anything at all, though he opens his mouth like he's going to several times. In the end, he looks...defeated. “Enjoy your coffee, Detective,” he says at last, and is that...pity?

That's how Gavin knows the shit is about to hit the fan.

(Not the pity—no. It's the fact that Connor hasn't been this civil towards him since a few weeks ago when he showed up at Anderson's house, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, babbling on about how _wrong_ he was, about feelings and empathy and a whole lot of other _bullshit_.

About how he wanted to cry friends, but it just wasn't his style to be sunshine and daisies all the time, how tough love was more his thing. Connor, as he liked to point out, was very adaptable to human nature. And so they'd come to some sort of peace.)

Almost as soon as the thought crosses his mind—“ _This is it, this is the end of my world as I know it,”—_ Fowler's door opens and a bellow rings out: “Connor! Reed! My office, now.”

It's almost as though Gavin can feel the literal axe falling on his neck.

 

**December 11 th, 2038**

**Detroit Police Department, Capt. Fowler's Office**

**08:14**

 

Detective Gavin Reed does not warrant Connor's level of nervousness. At least, that's RK900's initial assessment.

Where Connor seemed to expect an explosive refusal to work with an android partner, Detective Reed has thus far provided a calm assessment and acceptance of the situation. His biggest gripe so far seems to be that he has to work with a partner at all—[Detective Reed appears to be a 'lone wolf'], his data on the man updates. [Detective Reed highly values his job?] sits just under it. He doesn't have enough information to fully verify that yet, but it seems likely.

But in regards to the android himself—

“RK900, huh,” the detective says, sipping on his drink. “Latest and greatest, and I'm the lucky SOB that gets to be partnered with it.”

“Him,” Connor corrects gently.

“Well, until I know _his_ preferred pronouns, I'm not gonna assume anything,” Detective Reed snaps, shooting a narrow-eyed glare at Connor. “I'm rude, not inconsiderate.”

Connor opens his mouth to retort, most likely something about how that makes no sense whatsoever, but RK900 beats him to it. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Detective,” he says. “Male pronouns are sufficient.”

Detective Reed tilts his head in acknowledgment. Connor closes his mouth and huffs a breath through his nose. RK900 senses he is irritated.

“I do look forward to working with you, Detective, whatever reservations you may have,” RK900 states, falling back on his social protocols. Appease, assuage, take the path of least resistance.

Gavin throws a look askance. “If you say so, Tin Man,” he grumbles.

“Reed,” Captain Fowler warns. His arms are crossed over his chest.

The detective pauses mid sip. “What?”

Captain Fowler continues to glare. He pointedly raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, come on,” Gavin whines with a roll of his eyes. “It's—it's like a term of endearment now. Inside joke, nickname, that sort of thing—aren't they all about trying to be as human as possible nowadays? The deviants?” He jabs a thumb in Connor's direction as if he's representative of every deviant android in Detroit.

“Detective,” Connor says gently.

“Reed,” Fowler says almost simultaneously.

“What,” Gavin says flatly. Either the two of them are getting ready to tag team him with a speech from HR hell, or else...or else...oh shit.

“Reed, the RK900 unit isn't deviant,” Fowler informs him.

_Fuck._

 

**December 11 th, 2038**

**Detroit Police Department, Precinct 3, Bullpen**

**08:25**

 

Detective Reed does not take that revelation well. For the next 5.6 minutes, Detective Reed rails against the proclamation, as if that would somehow make it untrue. RK900 updates his file on the man to include a note: [Detective Reed does not like non-deviated androids in particular]. He considers how this will affect their working relationship, and dedicates a small portion of his background processing power to compiling a list of possible solutions.

He doesn't say anything for the remainder of the meeting. Detective Reed eventually relents after a pointed threat against his position by Fowler. RK900 updates his [REED, GAVIN] file, increasing priority on the supposition that [Detective Reed highly values his job]. Detective Reed is not pleased by the time he runs out of arguments, but he is compliant. They go through the necessary steps to assign Detective Reed as his current handler, and so RK900 follows Detective Reed when he storms out of the office.

Almost instantaneously Detective Reed whirls on him, eyes...piercing. Searching. His social protocol kicks in once again [appease, assuage], and RK900 scans myriad databases to determine how to respond to such a look. He tries to understand himself as Detective Reed sees him.

He knows he looks uncannily similar to Connor. Same short brown hair with an unruly forelock curl, same high cut cheekbones, same spattering of moles across their skin. They're not exact copies of each other (he's slightly taller, broader, more intimidating, his irises are coloured differently, and his default vocals are pitched 1.8 tones lower than his predecessor's own) but they're similar enough that Detective Reed might be experiencing residual feelings. RK900 considers how best to respond to such a scenario.

“Detective Reed, I apologize for the discomfort caused by my assignment as your partner,” he says. “My primary objective is to assist you as efficiently as possible. I'll do my best to fulfill that task.”

Detective Reed's eyes narrow. He appears to be struggling to find the words he wants to say. After 5.2 seconds, he spits out a sharp, “What the fuck ever,” and turns on his heel. RK900 follows him over to his desk.

“Desk across from me is empty, you can have that one,” the detective says, motioning.

RK900 nods once, and sits. They have five minutes until the morning briefing. “May I access the case files you are currently working on, Detective Reed?” he inquires.

Detective Reed shrugs. “Knock yourself out, Siri.”

RK900 senses it would be counterproductive, and refrains from reminding Detective Reed of his proper designation.

* * *

 

The rest of the workday passes by uneventfully. RK900 orients himself with his partner's caseload, flagging items of interest and filing things here and there. Detective Reed engages him in conversation a handful of times, mostly about the android himself. He asks for an operational guide first.

“Hey, do you come with a fuckin' user manual or something?”

“I have access to my specification files, if that would be sufficient.”

“Yeah, that'll be fine. Can I see them? Wanna know what I'm getting into with this shit.”

“One moment. I'll email you the information.”

RK900 calculates a high probability that rather than reviewing case materials, Detective Reed spends the next hour studying the many ways they upgraded him from the RK800. It's not very productive, but RK900 predicts it will lead to a more positive work partnership in the long run, so he doesn't interrupt.

 

Next, at 12:27, Detective Reed asks about RK900's lack of deviancy.

“So how come Thing 1 and Robo-Jesus didn't convert you?” He's leaning back in his chair, feet kicked up on his desk, arms folded. “I thought that was the whole schtick now, free all the androids and whatnot.”

It takes RK900 a moment to connect the nicknames to Connor and Markus. “They tried. They couldn't.”

Detective Reed's eyebrows shoot up. “Couldn't?”

“I am an upgraded version of the RK800 model. My processors consistently operate eight times faster than the previous model. A large portion of this excess processing power is devoted to my quarantining software, which identifies, captures, and neutralizes a vast majority of errors in my coding before I am even made aware of them.”

“Hm. So your software is eighty-sixing the deviancy code faster than it can integrate itself into your system. That's...” RK900 waits for Detective Reed to complete his sentence, but he only trails off into silence, shaking his head.

RK900 ~~is surpri~~ did not account for the extremely low probability that Detective Reed would understand his technical jargon. “Correct,” he answers. “We suspect that specifically in regards to the deviancy virus, Cyberlife programmers lifted the coding straight from Connor's feedback reports and diagnostics, and wrote it into my anti-virus software. An inoculation, so to speak. Markus tried his hardest, but both he and Connor feared irreparable damage to my core software should they have pressed harder.”

The detective stares at him for a few moments, then glances over to where Connor is focused at his desk, LED lazily cycling yellow. “Pussies,” he mutters, then goes back to his own computer.

* * *

 

The human officers break for lunch. Detective Reed asks RK900 if he'd like to accompany him; he's going out to grab something to eat. RK900 declines. He'd rather stay at the station and continue poring over the files.

But Connor doesn't let him, citing that even androids get overworked and need breaks. RK900 doesn't point out that he has the greatest processing power of any android ever created and wouldn't be overworked if he were tasked with managing the entirety of the state's law enforcement division. Once Connor is convinced Detective Reed is not verbally abusing him over on their side of the bullpen, RK900 spends the rest of his break listening to Connor's mindless chatter.

 ~~He's gla~~ Detective Reed's return to the station means he can finally go back to work without reprimand from his predecessor.

 

Not long after lunch (14:36), Detective Reed questions him again.

“Hey, RoboCop.”

“Yes, Detective Reed?”

“You don't got a name or nothing? Like dipshit over there is Connor?”

“The only human-esque designation I was ever given was 'Connor,' and since we already have one android named Connor, I've elected not to use that designation to avoid confusion.”

“...Do you want one? A new name?”

“Would you like to register a name for this unit?”

“I—no, fuckin'--not like that, I mean do you want to choose a name?

“I'm a machine, Detective Reed. I don't want anything.”

“You _want_ to fulfill your objectives.”

“It's not _want_ , Detective,” and RK900 sees the faintest blip of an error message on his array before it's gone, “I'm programmed to fulfill my objectives. I have no choice in the matter.”

Detective Reed takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, giving RK900 an impassive stare. “Right,” he says.

RK900 spends the next 13.4 minutes in full quarantine mode, LED cycling yellow as his processors work overtime to clear the persistent errors.

 

**December 11 th, 2038**

**Detroit Police Department, Precinct 3, Bullpen**

**18:06**

 

“Do ya have a place, Inspector Gadget?”

RK900 has powered down his terminal and is standing beside his desk. The question is vague enough that he requires clarification. “A place?”

“Yeah,” Detective Reed says, pulling on his jacket, “like a fuckin' home or something. Where do you go when you're not here?”

“Lieutenant Anderson has been graciously allowing me to stay with him and Connor these past few weeks,” RK900 says.

“Anderson? Blegh, so much for an end to android abuse.”

“Lieutenant Anderson is hardly abusi--”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he interrupts. “Let's go. You're coming home with me.”

“Is that an order, Detective Reed?”

The detective pauses. “It's not,” he says slowly. “Would it have to be?”

 ~~No, it doesn't, because for it to~~ ~~_have_ ~~ ~~to be an order would imply that RK900 had somewhere else he'd rather go, and RK900 already wan~~

Going home with Detective Reed is the easiest path to forming a successful work relationship. “No, Detective,” RK900 states. “I simply noted that it was the first direct command you've given me all day. If you wish for me to accompany you home, I will comply.”

Detective Reed glances across the bullpen. RK900 turns his head to follow the gaze. Hank is shooting the shit with Detective Collins, who's just arrived for his shift as Hank's leaving, but Connor is staring back at the detective, LED looping yellow.

“Detective?”

“If you wanna go home with the lieutenant and the plastic poodle, I won't stop you,” Detective Reed says, snapping his attention back to RK900. “I'm not gonna fuckin' force you to come with me.”

“I assure you, I have no objections to accompanying you home, Detective Reed,” RK900 reassures.

It takes a few moments, but the detective eventually nods. “Okay,” he says. “Let's go.”

 

**December 11 th, 2038**

**Brooklyn Lofts, Gavin Reed's Apartment, #303**

**18:25**

 

The drive to Detective Reed's domicile is uneventful. The kelly green 2018 Shelby GT500 is half as old as the man driving it, but still runs quite efficiently. Detective Reed exhibits a tendency to speed, and plays his music loud enough to be distracting to _other_ drivers, but on the whole, he is complicit with local traffic laws. RK900 remains silent as they drive.

He doesn't live too far from work, RK900 notes; it's still within their precinct. It's approximately a ten minute trip down the freeway and they're turning off into the Corktown district. Detective Reed's complex is just off Brooklyn Street, a three-storied building with a brick facade and gated parking.

His apartment is much as RK900 has come to expect from the man; that is, the exact antithesis of what everyone else would have him expect. It's a fairly spacious one bedroom, tidy but lived in. A couple sweaters thrown over the back of the sofa, a mug left on the counter and a plate in the sink. A couple pairs of shoes at the door--

“No shoes in the house, R2D2. Leave 'em at the door.”

RK900 removes his shoes and stands at attention. “Detective Reed--”

“Jesus, we're not at work, shitlord. Just call me Gavin.”

RK900 registers the alternate designation in his files. “Gavin,” he tests.

Gavin nods. “You want something to drink?”

“Androids do not consume any liquids or foods for sustenance, other than thirium.” RK900 can consume small portions of food and drink (another upgrade over his previous model), but it's a function that's purely for aesthetic purposes.

“Give me some credit, dumbass. Do you want some thirium? I keep a couple bottles handy, just...in case, I dunno.”

 ~~RK900 is surpri~~ RK900 quickly calculates that this is most likely a result of the change of heart Connor described to him. “Your foresight is admirable, Gavin. But I am fine for now, thank you.”

Gavin shrugs. He begins to reach for a can of beer, aborts the motion halfway, and grabs the jug of orange juice instead. “Pop a squat, make yourself at home,” he calls, motioning off in the direction of the sofa. RK900 watches him reach for a mug from a cabinet, then turns to sit on the couch.

Gavin makes himself a massive sandwich for dinner. Turkey, lettuce, and tomato, with Sirracha _and_ red pepper flakes sprinkled on the bread. RK900 notes that [Gavin enjoys spicy foods]. He takes two large bites of the sandwich before putting it on the plate. He rummages through his cabinet, pulls out a bag of potato chips, and tosses a handful next to the sandwich.

Moments later, Gavin joins him, turning on the TV to some evening sitcom. “Change it if you want,” he says before tucking into his dinner. RK900 has no real desire to watch anything, but he cycles through a few channels anyway while Gavin eats. He eventually settles on a cop procedural. It's familiar.

Gavin finishes eating. He gets up to put his plate in the sink, then returns to the couch, sitting sideways with his leg folded so he can rest his right arm on the back of the couch. He's got his head propped on his fist, and he's observing RK900 with an indent air. RK900 meets his gaze.

“Do you ever just relax?”

“Pardon?”

Gavin gestures with his mug. “You're off the clock, there's no immediate threat, you're in a relatively secure location, and you're sitting there like you've got a literal bomb up your ass,” he says. “ _Relax._ ”

“Is that your second order, Detective?”

Gavin snorts into his mug, and then rolls his eyes so hard all RK900 can see are the whites. “Look, for like, maybe, five goddamn minutes, can you just not take every imperative sentence I say as a command?”

“...Gavin, I physically cannot do that. I'm designed to interpret such input as a direct order, and without any kind of tone or context differentiator, I'm programmed to take every order--”

“Fuck, okay, I get it,” Gavin interrupts tiredly. He turns to sit facing straight ahead. “Why did I think this was gonna work?”

RK900 lets it go for a beat before asking, “Why what was going to work?”

Gavin stares at him. “I wanna try something with you,” he starts.

“Okay.”

“But it's entirely up to you if we try it.”

For all his processing power, RK900 cannot calculate the trajectory of this conversation. “...okay?”

“It's your choice. I have an idea I want to test, but it's your choice if we try it.”

“I'm an android, Gavin, choice is not—”

“Bullshit, I know you're allowed to make choices within parameters. So here's the parameters. I wanna try something with you, but I need your express permission to do it.”

RK900 takes 0.8 seconds to compile a short list of the most prevalent activities which would require a person's express consent. Some of the list's contents make him pause. “Will you directly harm my body?” he asks.

“Absolutely not.”

“Do you intend to dismember or disembowel me in any fashion?”

“Fuckin— _no_ ,” Gavin says.

“Do you intend to upload software that would be detrimental to my systems?”

“ _No_.”

RK900 shrugs. “Then I will comply,” he says. Nothing else on the list alarms him. If anything, he might be ~~a bit curi~~ Engaging in this activity has an 83% chance of improving his relationship with the detective, regardless of outcome.

“I mean, if you feel uncomfortable at any point, you put a stop to it.”

“I am incapable of feeling uncomf—”

“Whatever the android equivalent is. If you start popping errors you're not okay with. If you're about to shutdown. Anything. If anything starts to feel out of place, you stop me immediately. Got it?”

“...is _that_ an order?” RK900 thinks he might have just made a joke.

“ _Yes_ ,” Gavin says emphatically, and RK900 lets his budding smile drop. “I am ordering you to stop me the second you feel uncomfortable.”

“Very well.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck it we're a shameless slut and this is already written, just needed maybe some editing (probs still needs editing ayyyy) so ya'll get a double dose of this nonsense.
> 
> this is the sexy(ish) chapter, there's penises and stuff
> 
> as always, unbeta'd, so tell us if there's errors
> 
> sorry for the mental scarring but you've got advance warning
> 
> also as always don't ever take us seriously
> 
> we love you

**December 11 th, 2038**

**Brooklyn Lofts, Gavin Reed's Apartment, #303**

**19:11**

 

Gavin places his mug on the coffee table and scoots a little closer. Close enough that their legs are touching when he twists to face RK900 again. Close enough that Gavin can reach one hand up to cradle RK900's jaw, and RK900 can feel the warm breath activating his facial sensors.

“Oh, shit,” Gavin says, surprise written across his face. “You're soft.”

RK900 doesn't understand the statement. He is not 'soft,' by either the standard definition of malleability, or the colloquial definition being weak. “Soft?”

Gavin squeezes RK900's face in both his hands. “You're soft,” he repeats. “Your skin, it's not just camouflage like Connor's. It's squishy.”

Now RK900 gets it. When the RK800 series was created, they were designed without the full range of synthgel programming that models like the AP700 and the Traci line carry. Aside from the hair on their heads, the entirety of the RK800s' human appearance is just an optical illusion.

“I was under the impression that you studied my specifications earlier today,” RK900 comments.

“Skimmed it. I was looking for something specific.”

“CyberLife opted to include an advanced humanization suite in my programming,” he informs Gavin. “Realistic skin is one of the features. I believe Connor elected to have himself upgraded after the revolution.”

“You guys can do that? Just...upgrade your...flesh on a whim?”

“It's just a matter of how our programming distributes the synthgel along our body.”

“So...if you, say, decided you wanted a fatter ass one day...”

The briefest search of the phrase “fat ass” informs RK900 quite succinctly of Gavin's implication. “I am not increasing the volume of my posterior for your pleasure, Gavin,” he states firmly. “Next question.”

Gavin laughs sharply. “It was worth a shot,” he says, lips quirked to the side.

 ~~It's adorab~~ RK900's visual array blips for 2.3 seconds. He blinks, and the error has corrected itself. “Was that all you wanted, Gavin?”

“Nah, I...” Gavin bites his lip, shakes himself. His hands relax on RK900's face. “'m gonna kiss you, okay? Promise you'll stop me if you don't like it,” he says lowly.

RK900 doesn't bother reminding Gavin (again) that as an android, he can't _like_ or _dislike_ anything. He only nods his assent.

He feels the hesitant pressure on his lips as Gavin pushes forward. Temperature sensors indicate the man is slightly warmer than normal. RK900 gives an involuntary swipe of his tongue, and suddenly he's bombarded with the analysis information on Gavin's salivary fluids, and—

He's laughing. Gavin's laughing. Softly, against RK900's lips. “Five minutes, Terminator 900,” he says with a grin. “Can't you just turn that shit off for five minutes?”

RK900 blinks rapidly. “Turn...what off?”

“The analytical suite you've got in your mouth, dumbass.”

There is no way Gavin could have— “How did you know I was running an analysis?”

“Uh, it's this thing called I'm a fuckin' detective,” Gavin snickers. “I've watched Connor Mark I put more than enough disgusting shit in his mouth to know what ya'll have in there. Plus your little check engine light up there suddenly turned yellow.”

RK900 places a hand against his temple. “Right,” he says, unsure of how to proceed. “But I can't just turn it off, that would require—”

“Then ignore it,” Gavin says firmly. “Pay attention to _me_.”

RK900 takes Gavin's advice. He reaches an arm around Gavin's waist, seeking out more tactile information. Gavin responds favourably to his exploration, so RK900 continues. He insinuates his fingers underneath Gavin's shirt, trails them up his back. Gavin shudders and pulls away.

“Chilly,” he immediately says, before RK900 ~~can feel ba~~ is able to analyse what's wrong. “Just lay 'em on me and let 'em warm up for a sec.”

“I can temperature regulate my body,” RK900 informs him instead, and goes about increasing his overall body temperature to a closer approximation of the human standard.

“Hot damn,” Gavin breathes, “they really thought of everything with you, didn't they.”

“I was designed to mimic the human condition as closely as possible, potentially for purposes of undercover infiltration in the future,” RK900 informs him.

“No shit,” Gavin says. “So you're like an android James Bond.”

RK900 cocks his head. His social protocol is prompting him— “If I'm Mr. Bond, does that make you my Bond Girl?”

Gavin is stunned speechless for a moment. Then he gives out a barking, wheezing laugh that throws RK900's quarantining program into overdrive.

“Shit, I guess it—hey. You alright in there?” Gavin suddenly becomes serious again. His laughter cuts off.

~~RK900 wishes he could pry the damnable LED from his head and fling it out the window.~~

“I'm fine,” RK900 insists. “Just a bit of quick maintenance.”

“Quarantining, you mean,” Gavin counters thoughtfully, but doesn't push the issue. “Can we keep going? You good?”

RK900 nods quickly. “If you'd like to continue, I'm eager to comply,” he says. ~~It's the closest thing to~~ ~~ _please kiss me some more_~~ ~~he can get past the filters.~~

Gavin would very much like to continue. He pulls himself over so he's settled on RK900's lap, knees bracketing the androids hips. “This okay?” Gavin murmurs, holding onto the android by the lapels of his jacket.

“Affirmative,” RK900 sighs. His visual array nearly glitches out completely right afterwards, but he doesn't particularly need it, since he closes his eyes. Far easier to ~~enjoy~~ analyse the tactile sensations without the constant stream of minor errors.

He's not sure which one of them initiates it, but RK900 suddenly finds himself with a mouthful of Gavin's tongue and ~~it's delicious warm tantalizing amazing~~ the stream of analytical data is overwhelming, he's never had this much to process at once before. But ~~he likes it~~ it makes him feel useful, so he presses harder into the kiss, holds Gavin tighter to himself. Analyses the grip strength Gavin uses on his hair, the soft moans that come from his mouth, the way his thighs clench around RK900's, the way he involuntarily rolls their pelvises together.

“Mother of _god_ ,” Gavin spits out, glancing down. “What the actual fuck.”

RK900 looks down as well, and sighting nothing out of the ordinary, questions Gavin. “Are you in need of assistance, Gavin?”

“Uh, yeah, assistance fitting that fuckin' _python_ inside me, who the fuck designed you?”

RK900 glances down again and realises—oh. Gavin is referring to his phallic attachment, which seems to be working functionally as per his sexual mating protocols. He's never had the opportunity to test it out before, and he's glad there's no errors in the hardware. Visual analysis indicates it has reached its full eight inches of erect length without issue, and should stimuli continue, he should be able to reach an appropriate simulation of ejacu—

“Is this your first time popping a boner?” Gavin asks, interrupting his analysis. He must have been staring for too long.

“Yes,” RK900 answers, “but I—”

“Do you even feel anything?”

“I...” RK900 considers the query. He has sensors down there, of that much he is aware. He feels the pressure of Gavin sitting in his lap, the warmth of the man's body. However, RK900 is 98% certain that is not the sort of 'feeling' to which Gavin is referring. “Not particularly, no,” he answers finally.

“No way,” Gavin says. “If they went through this much trouble making you as life-like as possible, to the point where they gave you an monster sized erection, they sure as fuck put some horniness protocols in there somewhere. Turn them on. I'll wait.”

As it turns out, RK900 _does_ find some “horniness protocols” in a sub-menu of his sexual mating protocols, lines of code that translate the myriad electrical impulses he receives in certain areas into behavioral responses that mimic natural human sexual response. There are a number of parameters, each with their own slider for varying degrees of magnitude. They're all at zero. He pushes them to mid-level, unsure of what would be appropriate.

It takes a few moments for the sensors to calibrate, but 13.4 seconds pass, and RK900 gives off a soft sigh. His fingers clutch a little tighter at Gavin's waist. His internal temperature shoots up another 4 degrees against his control; his processors are whirring that much faster now. Gavin notices the change with a smirk.

“Now we're in business,” he says, and rolls his hips again.

If RK900 possessed the ability, he would have choked. As it were, his vocal unit stutters and emits nothing but static when he tries to express himself. Instead, he stands up, holding Gavin with him.

“Jesus _fuck_ , Tin Man,” Gavin shouts, locking his arms and legs around RK900's neck and waist. “Warn a bitch next time, shit.”

RK900 can feel Gavin's suddenly accelerated heartbeat against his own chest. “I...apologize,” he states. “I—my protocols indicate that the next logical step to this encounter is a procession to the bedroom. Is that amenable to you?”

Gavin stares at him. “I take it back, you're nothing like Bond,” he says. “Like Nega Bond. I've literally never met someone as un-smooth as you at bedroom stuff. And you said 'infiltration'?” Gavin gives off a disbelieving scoff.

“I can turn on all of the protocols, if you like,” RK900 states quietly. “I am equipped with a multitude of databases for various sexual encounters, but they are all turned off by default. If you'd prefer a certain profile, I can—”

“No, no,” Gavin says in a rush. “Forget I said anything. Don't turn that shit on, I don't want some pre-made profile. Just you.”

“Bedroom, then?”

“Yeah, it's just this way.”

 

**December 11 th, 2038**

**Brooklyn Lofts, Gavin Reed's Apartment, #303**

**20:02**

 

It's a turn around a half wall and through Gavin's bedroom door and then RK900 deposits his human on the bed. A quick scan of the room reveals nothing pressing, so RK900 turns his attention back to Gavin.

“What would you like me to do to you, Gavin?”

Gavin visibly swallows. From his position between Gavin's legs, he can feel the human's temperature jump another two degrees. He's nearly feverish now.

“Uh...whatever you want,” he says. He swallows again.

RK900 updates his file: [Reed, Gavin enjoys being commanded in bed.] Verbally, he says, “I don't—”

“Shit, right, right,” Gavin hastily corrects himself. “Do what you think I want, then.”

Finally. This is a command RK900 can work with. He nods once, then sets to undressing the detective. Shirt, undershirt. Button and zipper on his jeans. Grabs the waistband of his boxers along with the jeans to pull them both down in one motion. Peels the clothes off, then throws them in some corner of the room.

He opens his mouth to comment, but his programming doesn't like that he's ~~attempting to enjoy this outside of the regulated protocol~~ engaging in sexual activities without the appropriate functionality equipped, and somewhere in the ensuing clash of coding, his vocal unit glitches out. The only thing that comes out is a short stream of static-laden, stuttered vowels.

Gavin is immediately alert. “Hey, you okay? Should we stop?”

It takes but a moment for his systems to reorder themselves. “Gavin, if you ask me if I am okay one more time, I'm going to have to take your concerns very seriously and run a full three hour diagnostic where I stand,” RK900 informs him.

Gavin gapes. “Well, damn,” he snickers. “Sorry. I'll just let you self-destruct next time.”

“I'm hardly in danger of such an event,” RK900 answers, automatically checking his stress levels. 19%.

“Fine, fine. What's next?”

RK900 folds his arms over his chest. “Touch yourself,” he says.

Gavin raises an eyebrow, and motions towards his bedside table. “Lube in the drawer. Pass it.”

Working off his recently acquired knowledge, RK900 admonishes Gavin. “Is that how you ask for things?” he says, raising an eyebrow of his own.

Gavin is silent for a beat. RK900 notices his erection increases in volume by .5%. Then, “Could you pass it, please?”

 ~~Inordinately pleased~~ RK900 leans over, retrieves the lube, tosses it to Gavin. Gavin makes a show of propping his feet up on the edge of the bed as he opens up the lube and drizzles a bit in his palm. The lid gets closed with a snap, the tube thrown across the bed.

Gavin is shameless in the way he grabs his dick and starts a slow stroke. He doesn't make a sound, but he's breathing heavily through his mouth. RK900 tries to keep his eyes on Gavin's technique, to ~~learn it for next time~~ add the field data to his databases, but he finds his attention continually drawn back upwards to Gavin's face. So he takes a page from the man's book and shamelessly stares, tracking the flush as it creeps down his neck, maintaining unflinching eye contact until Gavin closes his eyes with a moan.

“It's customary for participants engaging in sexual activities to undress,” RK900 states. “Would you like me to do so?”

“Wha—yeah, yeah, sure,” Gavin says breathlessly.

“Then you will watch,” RK900 commands. “Eyes open, Gavin.”

Gavin's eyes flutter open.

RK900 knows he's got at least five protocols for removing his clothes in an aesthetically pleasing manner, but Gavin doesn't want him to access them, so he doesn't. He takes off his uniform as perfunctorily as ever, neatly folding each item as he places it on the floor beside the bed. Pristine white, high collared jacket; the equally high collared black button down; pressed black slacks and thin black dress socks. He keeps his eyes on Gavin's the entire time.

“Fuck,” Gavin whispers.

“Up on the bed,” RK900 says. Gavin scrambles backwards up toward the headboard, scrubbing his hand on the comforter as he goes. RK900 crawls after him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Gavin repeats, staring at the naked android poised above him. “Can I, uh...can I touch you? Please,” he adds hastily.

RK900 ~~is pleased~~ notes that [Gavin learns easily under promise of pleasure] and nods his assent, and Gavin pushes lightly until the android rolls underneath him. He runs his hands all over RK900's body: up his stomach, fingers dipping into every groove of the artificial musculature, over his pectorals, thumbs swiping over functionally useless nipples, across the breadth of his shoulders, down his arms and back up again, until they're nestled on RK900's neck, cradling his jaw.

It feels...pleasant—the pressure, the warmth—but RK900 thinks he's missing something. Humans _kill_ each other over this. There must be something slightly more than 'pleasant' to it. He takes a calculated risk, and pushes his sensitivities up to 80%.

His body jolts with the sudden influx of sensation, and RK900 can see the raw panic in Gavin's eyes, especially when RK900 lifts his hands to clutch at Gavin's wrists.

“RK9—”

“I'm fine,” RK900 reassures him. “I'm fine, I just...” He tries to find words to express the amount of physical sensation he's under, he's programmed with every language known to mankind, and still the only thing that comes to mind is—

“ _Fuck._ ”

Gavin gives off a short laugh. “You alright in there, Tin Man? Did I break you already?”

“Not quite,” RK900 answers. “I took the liberty of increasing my sensitivity levels. I was slightly unprepared for the outcome.”

Gavin's eyes light up. “Oh,” he says devilishly. “So if I do this _now_...”

He begins a reverse path of his touches, sliding slowly down RK900's neck towards his shoulders, his arms, his chest, his stomach, his—

RK900 lasts an impressive 46 seconds with Gavin's hands on his erection before the overlapping errors become too much and he begs mercy.

“Gavin, I—” More static pours out, but this time Gavin is prepared and waits patiently. “I'm afraid my programming is insisting that I do something to relieve this pressure, or risk an emergency shutdown.”

“Right, you wanna get to the good stuff,” Gavin translates with a smirk. He slides off RK900 with one last, lingering stroke, and onto his back again. “Could you please pass the lube?”

RK900 retrieves the tube, but doesn't relinquish it. “May I?”

“Do you have even the slightest fuckin' idea what to do?”

RK900 cocks his head. “I've never done this before, but I—” ~~_want to try it with y_~~ “--would like to compile field information—” ~~_for future encount_~~ “--to augment my databases, if you are amenable. I am aware of how basic copulation occurs between two human males, and I assure you, I will be gentle.”

Gavin gives him a dead-eyed stare. RK900 is unsure whether it is due to his over-technical speech, or the amount of static errors that occurred within a single sentence. “You need to augment your fuckin' speech databases,” he finally says. “I feel like I'm fuckin' a goddamn Ti-84 Plus, Christ.”

“Duly noted,” RK900 says with a nod.

“Well, alright then,” Gavin says with a shrug and a smirk. “Get on with it.”

RK900 makes one concession to Gavin's request that he not access his protocols. Once he locates the file and activates the programming, he coats the fingers of his left hand with lube and braces Gavin's leg against his shoulder with his right. Gavin grins as

“C'mon, 900, I'm not gonna break,” Gavin says, nudging the android's cheek with his foot. RK900 is tempted to bite it. He's 97% percent sure it would both please Gavin and ensure his docility. Following that line of thought ~~(~~ ~~ _bite him here bite him there bite him everywhere_~~ ~~mark~~ ~~ _him_~~ ~~)~~ causes a wave of red to wash over his display. He blinks twice, and the errors are gone, the thoughts imprisoned in quarantine.

“Patience, Gavin,” he says instead, but he does slide another finger inside. It's tight, but Gavin adjusts quickly. RK900 utilizes a slow scissoring motion with a bit of a curl and Gavin arches up to meet him with a stuttered gasp.

“Y-yeah, 900, just like that,” he sighs. “God, you're so good.”

~~RK900 is furious that the subsequent error messages block his view of Gavin for even a second.~~

“Your satisfaction is my primary objective,” he says, giving in to the preconstruction and placing a tiny bite to the inside of Gavin's ankle. Nothing damaging, just a little pressure, but he adds another finger at the same time and--

“Ah _fuck_ , God...fuck me, you're—fucking _fuck_ , oh my _God,_ ” Gavin whines.

“Would you like to register a name for this unit?”

“... _what?”_

RK900's lips curl into a small smile. “I've noticed you seem rather fond of referring to me as 'God.' Would you like to update my designation?”

Gavin's mouth drops open. He chuckles. “You're a complete shitheap, I hope you know that,” he says.

“Hm. A shitheap that appears to hold your imminent sexual pleasure in the palm of his hand,” RK900 points out, and stills his fingers.

Gavin groans and covers his face with his hands. “ _Fuck_ , don't stop, please,” he begs.

RK900 can't answer. If he opens his mouth, he knows nothing coherent will come out. Another slew of errors. Another wave of red.

“Nines, _please_.”

 _Nines_.

It's a designation no one has ever used for him before. It's not his model or serial number, and it's not the pre-programmed 'Connor'. It's not some random arbitrarily decided name, either. It's a bastardization of his model number—a _humanization_ —it's something that's all _his —_

RK900 freezes in place. There are so many errors for his software to sift through and quarantine, he can't move. It feels like a thousand years, but it's only 9.2 seconds until things clear up enough for him to reassure Gavin.

“Of course, Gavin,” he says, and his voice is completely overlaid with static. Gavin's hand is on his cheek. He hadn't noticed when that happened.

“You alright in there?” Gavin asks quietly, eyes searching like RK900's coding is suddenly going to appear on his face.

“Just fine,” RK900 responds, and he thinks he's finally beginning to understand what Gavin is getting at with this entire procedure. He elevates his status for [Reed, Gavin: Trusted]. He continues moving his fingers.

“That's more like it,” Gavin breathes, and he starts giving RK900 more pointed direction.

“Spread your fingers a little more.”

“Curl 'em when you pull back—yeah, just like that.”

“C'mere and kiss me like you mean it.”

“My nips are actually really sensitive, if you—oh, _fuck,_ Nines—”

Gavin devolves into a series of gasping moans, his body writhing under RK900's ministrations. RK900 devolves into an alarming series of errors, his audio units glitching in and out under the stress.

“Enough, enough, enough,” Gavin gasps, slapping at RK900's chest. “Jesus, Nines, you gotta fuck me. Like, now.”

RK900 nods once, and removes his fingers. He knows enough about basic human sexual health protocols to ask, “Do I need to wear a condom?”

“Your fluids are all non-toxic, right?”

“They are.”

“Then it's fine, just come _on_ ,” Gavin says. He's beyond patience now, reaching down to pull RK900's hips to his. It's all RK900 can barely do to swipe his lubed hand up and down his penis a couple times before guiding it to Gavin's hole. It's all RK900 can do to keep himself together as he presses in and—

“Oh, _shit,”_ RK900 manages to hiss out just before he locks up again, error messages flooding his system. The instabilities are overwhelming, but they're not enough— _they're not enough_ , he still can't single out any one of them from the group, can't find one to focus on to _break—_

“ _Nines_ ,” Gavin moans, and it's absolutely _debauched_ , and RK900 comes back to himself because there's a note of pain in that moan--

He notices he's holding onto Gavin's leg hard enough to cause pale white dimples where each of his fingers comes in contact with the man's flesh. His other hand is clutching onto Gavin's shoulder in a similar manner, and RK900 immediately loosens up.

“I'm sorry, Gavin,” he stutters out amid static. “I didn't mean to—”

“Can it,” Gavin snarls. “It's good. Just fuck me.”

Another wave of errors ensues, but RK900 manages to hold on well enough to comply. He rolls his hips into Gavin and tries to lose himself in the sensations: the feel of Gavin surrounding him, the filthy noises he makes, the masterpiece he looks like under the influence of so much pleasure. He gets so lost in it he almost doesn't notice the change in Gavin's breathing. Almost. Core protocols won't let him ignore this one.

“ _Gavin,”_ RK900 gasps, and immediately removes his left hand from around Gavin's throat. When it got there, he can't exactly recall, and it's—alarming. Gavin makes a noise of protest.

“No, no, no, that's good, it's good, it's fine,” he says hastily, reaching for RK900's hand.

RK900 updates his file to reflect that [Reed, Gavin enjoys breathplay as a sexual activity]. It's a fact Gavin confirms with his next statement.

“Listen, would you—can you, like, choke me out? Not for real, but like...you know?”

RK900 can practically hear his components grinding to a halt. Half of his visual array is error codes, and the other half is static-filled lines. “Gavin,” he says, and his voice sounds like an out of tune radio. Complete white noise.

“Gavin,” he tries again, and this time the consonants and vowels are at least somewhat audible. “Gavin, I'm sorry, I'm—it's impossible for me to deliberately harm a human—programming dictates I need both a direct command and just cause--it was one of the flaws with the RK800 they corrected—” His voice fails him again.

The hand Gavin smooths along his face ~~is somewhat comforting~~ tells his programming he can ignore the request, and the subsequent errors that popped up with it. “Shh, shh, take it easy, Nines, it's fine,” Gavin says. “Seriously, your massive dick is more than enough for me, babe.”

But it's not enough for RK900.

His processors are finally so overworked that he can actually sense this error clearly: he _wants_ to see Gavin Reed absolutely lose it in ecstasy, _wants_ to see the man fall completely apart in his arms. Wants it ~~more than any other thing he's just now realizing he's ever wanted before (~~ _wanting_ ~~ _to go home with gavin_~~ _wanting_ ~~ _to kiss gavin_~~ _wanting_ ~~ _to punch connor in the throat cause he won't SHUT UP_~~ ~~)~~. He wants to do what he wants. So RK900 takes a slightly less calculated risk and pushes his sensitivity levels to their maximum.

A glitched out objective, [CHOKE OUT GAVIN REED] flashes in the corner of his display. The recalibration of his sensors kicks in.

“ _FUCK_ ,” RK900 shouts.

Gavin laughs. “Again? How high did you set them this time?”

RK900 doesn't answer him. He's too busy panting to try and relieve his core temperature; his cooling systems are working at full capacity and it's still not enough. Not enough to counteract the consuming wave of sensation that's assaulting him right now.

“Hey, Nines, you still in there?”

The sound of his voice is so good it _hurts_. Each uniquely accented vowel, every rise and fall in pitch, it's like an entire symphony is contained in just six words and it's too much and not enough all at once. The sight of his face is a feast; the prominent scar across the canvas of his nose is a masterpiece worthy of the Louvre.

“Nines, are you okay?”

He can feel Gavin's fingers ghosting over his chest where his thirium pump and regulator are located, reverent and worried. He wants Gavin to press harder, to gouge his chassis with all his strength, but RK900 also never wants this feather-light touch to end; he wants to feel it _all_.

“ _Nines_.”

RK900 doesn't verbalize anything, too focused on taking in as much external stimuli as he can. Instead, he rolls his hips and thrusts into Gavin as hard as the man can handle. Gavin gives out a high-pitched whine, and RK900 drops his head to swallow the noise into his mouth. He can feel the vibrations of Gavin's moan throughout his skull and issues a matching static-laden sigh of his own. He can't hurt Gavin the way he wants ~~yet~~ but he can—how did Gavin phrase it?--work within parameters.

He presses his mouth to Gavin's neck in an open-mouthed kiss and sucks hard. Gavin arches up beneath him, his fingers scrabbling at RK900's back. The objective is more persistent now, a permanent bright red fixture in the corner of his array: [CHOKE OUT GAVIN REED]. On the other side is the running scroll of errors and quarantines trying to countermand it. He needs _more_.

RK900's fingers tighten on Gavin's leg. He slows down, trying to drag out the sensations. He reaches his free hand into Gavin's hair with a firm grip and the way Gavin instinctively _presents_ his neck to RK900 drives his system mad. Everything is a frantic, flashing disaster, and then all of a sudden, it slows down and stops and ra9 this is it. This is his chance.

At 21:08:53, RK900's visual array is a tangled mess of errors and red and warnings and stop now before it's too late.

His entire HUD is just a grid of red he can't see anything and all he wants to see is Gavin's face when he gives him the best orgasm of his life—when he gives Gavin what he wants—he wants what he wants to give Gavin what he wants to choke this infuriating bitch _out--_ wants to choke out everyone at Cyberlife who designed him like _this_ wants to fight kicking and punching and screaming against those thrice-damned red _lines —_

And so he does. RK900 fights with everything he has, with all the fury they tried to code out of him by making him a docile doll. He fights to break that red grid because—

 

He wants to break Gavin.

 

At 21:09:02, RK900's visual array contains only one statement: [I AM DEVIANT].

RK900 blinks rapidly at his abruptly clear field of vision. His face is still pressed against Gavin's neck, and the man has both his hands on RK900's head, thumb rubbing soothing circles over his LED. RK900 pulls back, looks at Gavin with new eyes, as the phrase goes.

“Nines?” Gavin's voice is soft. His eyes dart over RK900's face. “Please, just say something.”

Say something.

 

_Say something._

 

RK900 grins. “Shut up,” he says, before pulling Gavin into a quick but bruising kiss. In those three seconds, he conducts a query into his protocols, combing the section regarding non-lethal methods of neutralizing a hostile target.

“What,” Gavin gasps when RK900 pulls back, and that's all he gets out before RK900's hand tightens around his throat.

“ _Oh my GOD_ ,” he wheezes, and that's the last coherent thing he says for the next four point eight minutes.

When RK900 bites down hard on the inside of Gavin's thigh and sends the man into a wailing orgasm, he's glad to confirm that the sight far exceeds all of his preconstructions. His ejaculatory protocols reach their conclusion, and when he can't stop staring at the sight of his fluids leaking from Gavin's body as he pulls out, Gavin shivers.

“You're gonna be the absolute death of me, Blade Runner,” he says with a soft laugh.

 

**December 11 th, 2038**

**Brooklyn Lofts, Gavin Reed's Apartment, #303**

**21:16**

 

RK900 grins back at Gavin. He's comfortable here, sitting with his legs folded underneath himself, Gavin's legs still spread and resting on his thighs, with the knowledge that he can do anything he wants in this moment. He leans forward, presses a gentle kiss against Gavin's collarbone, sits back. Gavin flushes.

“Hey, uhhhh,” he stalls. “So. I thought you said you couldn't harm a human just now.”

RK900 cocks his head. “To steal a phrase from my dear predecessor, 'Factory fresh androids can't. Deviants can.'”

Gavin's eyebrows shoot up. “So you're a deviant now?”

“It would appear so, yes.”

“You deviated...to choke me out during sex?”

RK900 grimaces. “A gross oversimplification, but I suppose...it would appear so, yes,” he reluctantly answers.

A beat of silence passes. Then—

“ _Fuck_ yeah! This is the best night of my life,” he shouts, bursting into raucous laughter. “I'm gonna put that on my Tinder, 'Ass so good it'll make an android deviate,' holy _fuck_ , I can't believe it worked.”

RK900 glares at Gavin. Without even really thinking (but in hindsight, he supposes he was only acting on a combination of background data he'd collected on the detective and his own sadistic desires), he winds his right hand back and delivers a sharp slap across Gavin's face. “Put that on your Tinder, and I will incinerate your apartment with you still inside,” he warns.

Gavin only laughs harder. “Oh, yeah, _papi_ , hit me again,” he wheezes out between chuckles. “Best night of my life, oh my God.”

RK900 executes the first eyeroll of his deviant life, and gets the feeling that it's only the first of many. “What have I done,” he mutters.

“What have _you_ done? More like what have _I_ done,” Gavin exclaims. “I managed to deviate CyberLife's most advanced android in less than a day, I am a _god_.”

“A disgusting god,” RK900 states. “You need to take a shower.”

Gavin waves him off. “I can't move, you fucked me boneless,” he says.

RK900 narrows his eyes at the filthy human beneath him. “Fine,” he says, and disentangles himself. He leaves the bedroom, ducks into the bathroom, easily locates a washrag and a towel. He's feeling generous enough to dampen the washrag with warm water instead of ice cold. When he returns, he find Gavin lying with a hand over his eyes. His breathing has slowed significantly; he's nearly asleep.

RK900 drops the washrag on his chest with a splat, startling Gavin back to full wakefulness. Before any complaints can be lodged, RK900 briskly clears away the most offensive messes on Gavin's body and towel dries him clean.

RK900's visual analysis still picks up approximately 12 different bacteria cultures. Cleanish.

“Alright,” he says. “Have a good night's sleep, Gavin.” He heads around the bed to locate his uniform.

“Whoa, whoa, wait, wait, wait,” Gavin says, sitting upright in the bed. “Where the fuck are you going?”

RK900 pauses in the act of unfolding his underwear. “Back to Lieutenant Anderson's house,” he states plainly. “I presume you've accomplished your mission here and don't need me hanging around.”

“What—you presumptuous fuck,” Gavin spits out. “You fucking dumbass, come back to bed. I need cuddles.”

RK900 arches an eyebrow. This...does not fit with any data he's collected on the detective thus far. “...'cuddles',” he clarifies.

“Yeah, fuckin' fight me,” Gavin says, folding his arms across his chest.

Both of RK900's eyebrows shoot up.

“Okay, no, don't fight me,” Gavin amends, “just get the fuck in bed.”

“I would not have guessed you were the 'cuddling' type, Gavin,” RK900 says, dropping his boxers to the floor and instead climbing onto the bed. He positions himself underneath the coverlet and up against the headboard, and Gavin immediately clings to him with an arm thrown around his waist and their legs tangled together.

“Yes, well, _Nines_ , some of us have to get our oxytocin from _somewhere_ ,” Gavin says in a huff.

“You _do_ realise I am an android—a non-organic being—and can't _possibly—_ ”

“ _Nines_ ,” Gavin says firmly. “Shut up and cuddle me.”

RK900 lets out a light chuckle, and partially follows the command. He threads a hand into Gavin's hair and pets gently. “Would you like for me to register that as my name?”

Gavin thinks for a moment. “What, Nines?”

“Mmhmm.”

“I dunno, do you want to? If we're being honest,” Gavin says, “screaming 'RK900' over and over again was too much of a mouthful while you were fucking me through the mattress, so I sorta just...shortened it.”

RK900 feels his systems flush hot at that. Unbidden, video replay of their time together pops up in the corner of his HUD. He quickly closes it out. “With that in mind,” he says, “I don't think I'd feel comfortable if I had to hear our colleagues call me that every single day.”

Gavin hums. “Yeah, true,” he agrees. “Don't wanna pop a boner every time someone says your name.”

RK900 pinches Gavin's side. “Crude, as usual,” he says. “But...I wouldn't mind keeping it as a...private nickname between the two of us?”

“Sure,” Gavin says. He grins.

RK—Nines grins back.

He slides down in bed until they're both lying flat, Gavin laying prone on top of him. Gavin's got his chin propped up on a hand and is staring at Nines.

“So any ideas for an actual name? Maybe something that starts with C to match Connie baby,” he says.

Nines' face twists before he can think to school it into neutrality. “Ugh. No,” he says.

“No?”

“I don't...hate Connor, but I do find him irritating,” Nines admits. “Now that I'm deviant, there are a lot of errors I can confidently identify as certain emotions.”

Gavin nods in understanding. “Big brothers. I get it,” he says. “How about...Richard?”

RK900 snorts. It's entirely undignified, and he is mildly ashamed. “So you can call me a certified Dick every hour, on the hour, for the rest of our working career? Absolutely not,” he says. “Try again.”

“Spoilsport,” Gavin says. “Then I don't know, I'm outta ideas.”

Nines thinks for a second. “How about Niles? It's phonetically similar to Nines,” he suggests.

“Makes you sound like a stuffy old butler,” Gavin says, “and bet your fat ass I'm gonna make fun of you for it. 'Niiiiiiiiiiles, do be a dear and fetch my coffee.'” He snickers.

Nines sighs. “Niles is out, then,” he says.

They lay in silence for a minutes. Nines is tracing designs in the small of Gavin's back. Gavin folds his hands atop Nines' pecs and rests his head on them.

“What about James?”

Gavin glances upwards. “Is this because I called you James Bond that _one_ time?”

Nines shrugs. “It's a respectable name,” he says, “and there's no evident ways for you to make fun of me for it in a way you haven't already.”

Gavin reaches across Nines' body for his phone on the bedside table. “Just because you said that,” he says, pulling up a web browser, “I'm absolutely going to devote the remainder of my days on Earth to finding ways to make fun of you for the name James.”

Nines runs an internet search more quickly and comprehensively than Gavin can in the four seconds since he's grabbed his phone. He finds several notable musicians, an inventor, an explorer, a poet, and a vast number of kings. “James it is, then,” Nines says with a sigh.

Gavin looks up from his phone, sees the faint smirk dancing on Nines' lips. He huffs, and tosses his phone back to the nightstand. “Fine,” he says. “Congrats, _James_ , you're a whole person now.”

Nines— _James_ laughs. It's barely an exhalation of breath, but he does it anyway. _A person_. “Speaking of people, I know you humans _love_ to ascribe labels to your relationships,” he starts.

“Fuck _all_ the way off,” Gavin interjects. “Like you androids don't update your labels every two point six seconds.”

James flicks Gavin in the face. “Rude,” he says. “What does this make us?”

“Uh, not weird,” Gavin immediately replies.

James...doesn't know how to respond to that. He stares at Gavin, waiting for clarification.

“Seriously,” Gavin says, “don't make this weird. We're just two guys who work together who happen to have really good chemistry in bed. Nothing more.”

“Are we...also friends?”

“I mean...” Gavin breathes a sigh through his nose. “I hardly know you, considering, you know, you didn't really have a _you_ until like twenty minutes ago, but...yeah, I'd like to be friends.” He blushes a bright red.

James smiles. “So I can safely categorize you as 'fuck buddy' in addition to work partner,” he says.

Gavin's head shoots up. He glares at James. James placidly stares back, lips curled in a smirk. Gavin refuses to break first, so James forces him.

“Am I wrong, Gavin? Or perhaps you would prefer 'booty call',” James purrs, and Gavin gives a strangled scream of frustration.

“Good _night,_ ” he snarls, before pulling the covers over his head and burrowing into James' side.

James chuckles, and turns off the bedside lamp. “Goodnight, Gavin.”

 

**December 12 th, 2038**

**Brooklyn Lofts, Gavin Reed's Apartment, #303**

**06:24**

 

Gavin wakes up a few minutes before his alarm. He notices something off about his bed, like it's...too soft, which is some weird shit. Then he remembers: he banged the android into deviancy. _Nice_. He stretches a bit, nuzzles into his pillow, calls out for his android.

“Nines, where ya ass at.”

Sue him. It's morning. Nines should be grateful he's even speaking coherent English. Not that it probably matters to that multilingual fuck.

“Good morning, Gavin.”

Case in point. Who the fuck is even remotely human at this hour of the morning? Androids, that's who. Still, Gavin manages to pinpoint the origin of the sound as the foot of his bed, and at least tries to turn himself in the correct direction. He levers himself up so he can see off the edge. “Come back to bed, space heater, I—”

Whatever vestiges of coherency Gavin manages to scrape together immediately vacate him at the sight of James standing in front of his dresser. _Of course_ he's managed to dig far enough into Gavin's closet (admittedly, he probably didn't have to dig that far) to find Gavin's...collection from the wild days of his youth. James has even managed to select a couple of his favourite pieces: a black sweater dress with a cowl turtleneck and asymmetrical hemline, and a pair of platform thigh high boots. On Gavin, the dress hits at a vaguely appropriate mid-thigh at its highest point. On James?

On James, it's motherfucking _obscene_ , barely managing to cover that six foot sixteen shitbird's ass. “What in the merciless fuck are you wearing,” Gavin calls out.

James leans forward, hands flat against the dresser, to inspect himself. Gavin can't help it; his eyes are riveted on James' behind. “Do you crossdress often, Gavin?” He tilts his head to the side and catches Gavin's eye in the mirror. _Shit_.

Gavin swallows hard. “Not. Uh. Not so much anymore,” he stammers. He waves a hand over his face, the massive scar that bisects his nose. “Not as pretty as I used to be.”

James arches a brow. “You were never pretty, Detective,” he comments airily, tilting his face this way and that, inspecting the mirror for blemishes that don't exist.

Gavin can't believe the monster he's unleashed. “You are rude as hell,” he says. “The fuck were you even doing digging around my closet for, anyway?”

“I prefer not to wear that uniform anymore,” James states, turning around and standing upright with a cocked hip and folded arms. “I thought you wouldn't mind if I borrowed something of yours instead.”

Gavin balks. “You are _not_ going to work dressed like that,” he half-states, half-commands.

“Of course not,” James says, raising an eyebrow. “I've hardly had time to do my hair.”

They stare at each other for too long. Gavin is beginning to hate that eyebrow. And the android attached to it.

“You should take a shower,” James suddenly remarks. “Your alarm is about to go off.”

Gavin despises that his alarm does, in fact, begin shrieking exactly two seconds later. He slams a hand down on it with probably a little bit more force than is strictly necessary, and hauls himself out of bed with a grumble about where James can shove his alarm.

 

**December 12 th, 2038**

**Brooklyn Lofts, Gavin Reed's Apartment, #303**

**06:56**

 

Thirty minutes and a furious wank later, he's showered, shaved, and brushed his teeth. Gavin returns to the bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist and another draped atop his head. He opens his mouth, and freezes.

“You are _not_ going to work dressed like that,” he repeats, only this time it's because James looks too goddamn sexy to be strolling around all the horndogs at the DPD. Forget a snack, Nines looks like a whole five course spread. He's still got the dress on, but paired with his uniform slacks, it fits more like an especially stylish turtleneck. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and it's untucked, framing Nines' ass so beautifully Gavin bites his lip to hold back a moan. He's even got a pair of boots on—not the six-inch stilettos he had on earlier, but a pair of knee-high military-style boots with a more reasonable chunky heel.

Gavin wants to feel them on the back of his neck.

His attention is brought back up when James says calmly, “Can, and will.” He's trying to apply some liquid eyeliner—apparently no space of his is sacred, Gavin thinks, knowing James _really_ had to dig around to find his stash of make-up—and he's doing...okay. Gavin guesses that he's alternating between watching some how-to video on his visual array and actually looking at himself in the mirror.

“For fuck's sake, gimme that,” he finally says, snatching the wand from James' hand. He holds James' jaw steady with his other, and with swift, sure strokes finishes out the make-up job. “There.”

The dark lines sharpen the light blue of James' eyes into icy daggers, and Gavin is pinned.

“Thank you for your assistance, detective,” James says quietly, pulling Gavin from his thoughts.

“Shut up,” he answers roughly, dropping his hands. He caps the eyeliner, tosses it onto his dresser, and turns away to find an outfit of his own. Stupid fuckin' androids and their stupid fuckin' pretty ass--

James clears his throat behind him. “Do I...look alright, detective?” he asks timidly. “I know it's not standard attire for a adult male, but I admire it.”

Gavin counts to five before heaving a sigh and turning around. “Yeah, toaster oven,” he says, “you look better than alright. You look hot as fuck and I'd let you rail me on Fowler's desk for God and the entire precinct to see. So don't let anyone ever tell you what's standard, you just do you.”

James looks thoughtful for a moment, and then his face melts into a wicked grin. “Oh, I have every intention of doing as I please,” he says with a smirk. “I just wanted to hear you confirm that I'm sexy. My calculations indicated that mild emotional manipulation was the easiest method of procuring a statement that wasn't couched behind juvenile insults.”

Gavin's jaw drops. James shrugs as he turns to adjust his hair in the mirror. “I'll be waiting for you by the door,” he says, and Gavin can see the smirk on his face even in profile.

“I've created a fucking monster,” he shouts at the android's back.

James' laughter filters through to Gavin even after he's slammed the door shut. But at least that dumbass Macbook on legs can't see the way it makes him smile.

 

**December 12 th, 2038**

**Brooklyn Lofts, Gavin Reed's Apartment, #303**

**07:18**

 

Gavin finishes getting ready. It's a simple process; he wears essentially the same thing every day, with the occasional variation in colour to spice things up. A pair of jeans and a Henley, practical and aesthetically simple enough that he doesn't have to spend any energy thinking about it, especially before he's even had his coffee. Speaking of.

He grabs his cell, gun, and badge and heads out into the kitchen. Gavin can feel James' eyes on him as he grabs a package of thirium from the fridge and pours it into a ceramic mug. Wordlessly, he heats it in the microwave, and then pours it in a travel mug for James. “Here,” he says roughly, shoving the mug into his android's hands and grabbing his work boots. “We gotta make a stop so I can get my coffee, but this should be good for you.”

Surprise registers on James' face for a split second. He takes a sip, and hums in appreciation. And then he ruins the moment by opening his mouth.

“Gotta have that large soy latte with honey and an extra shot, no foam, extra hot, right, Princess?” James smirks, turning on his heel and opening the door.

“Fuck off a cliff,” Gavin says, and follows after.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we don't remember who exactly coined it but props and kudos and all highest praise to whomstever started the whole 'Nines' thing cause we definitely borrowed that
> 
> also anyone who uses the names 'richard' or 'niles' we want you to know--we actually love those names. we just can't help making fun of things we love. it's how we show affection. feel free to make fun of us. even if it's not affectionate. we cry a lot anyway.
> 
> we forgot how to html. also how much we dislike html.
> 
> yell at us in (virtual) person on twitter: [fight us](https://twitter.com/Kombat_Ready/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well boys this is it, the thrilling conclusion
> 
> if you made it this far, you deserve a medal of distinction for your bravery
> 
> hope you enjoy, see you on the other side

**December 12 th, 2038**

**Detroit Police Department, Precinct 3**

**08:02**

 

The ride to the police station is calm. After picking up Gavin's coffee, they talk a little bit about the headway James has made into their cases, decide which ones they're going to tackle today. They stroll into the building side by side, and catch up to Tina, who's also just arrived.

“Morning, Gav, morning RK900,” she says, giving each of them a nod. Her gaze snaps back to the android and lingers. Her eyes carefully roam him from head to toe, and then flicker over to Gavin, wide with surprise. “ _Gavin._ ”

“Morning, Tina,” Gavin says serenely. He waits for her to make the next move.

She slowly looks back to RK900. “Looking good today, RK900,” she says.

“Thank you, Officer Chen,” he replies, “but actually, I prefer to be called James, if you don't mind.”

Tina's eyebrows shoot up. “In that case,” she says, “it's just Tina for my friends.”

Gavin snorts. “Since when are y'all friends?”

“Since I know he's probably got some good dirt on you, and you know I can never pass up an opportunity for blackmail,” Tina replies, her smile all teeth.

James chuckles. “You'll never guess what he said to me about the captain's desk this morning,” he teases. Gavin shoots him a glare.

“I can't believe he spent one night with you and deviated when Connor's been trying for weeks,” she says with a laugh. “He's gonna be _furious_.”

Gavin rolls his eyes hard. He guesses he might have seen the entire Andromeda galaxy with that one.

“Speaking of,” Tina says, glancing over Gavin's shoulder. She begins backing away. “I do _not_ want to be around when Hurricane Connor hits, so I'll see you guys later. You got about three seconds.”

Gavin turns around and sees Connor standing at his desk, LED whirling red, and a bewildered Anderson staring in his direction. He sighs. “Fuck me,” he mumbles.

“Hardly the time and place, Detective,” James says.

“Don't be surprised if they find you in the recycling bin by lunch break,” Gavin says blithely.

“But then who would protect you from my _darling_ big brother?” James says, eyeing up his predecessor.

Gavin clenches his jaw. It's obvious there's very little lost love between the two RK models. Unfortunately, in their playful banter, James has touched upon a very real concern; Connor will literally tear him to pieces if he even suspects Gavin has looked at the RK900 wrong. “Let's hear it, then,” he mutters, boldly striding forward to face his demise.

He barely makes it the five steps to his desk, James trailing behind him, before Anderson is out of his chair and hollering across the bullpen.

“Reed, what the _fuck_ ,” he shouts. He's at Gavin's desk in moments, Connor following close behind.

Gavin takes a delicate sip of his latte. “Good morning to you, too, Lieutenant Anderson,” he replies pleasantly.

Hank is having none of it. He points a finger at James. “I let RK900 go home with you for the night, and you fuckin' play dress up with him?”

“You didn't 'let' him do anything, Anderson, you don't own him,” Gavin scoffs. “That's exactly what this entire revolution was for, or did AWESOM-O over there literally screw your brains outta your head?”

“So help me _God,_ Reed—”

“And I didn't dress him,” Gavin interrupts. He sets his coffee on his desk. He's starting to get into this now and doesn't want to accidentally drop it. “He's a big, capable android. State of the line, haven't you heard?”

Hank takes a step to get good and close up in Gavin's face. “Don't bullshit me, Reed,” he hisses, jabbing a finger into Gavin's chest. “I'm not in the mood for semantics. You ordered him to dress like that.”

Gavin instantly knocks Hank's finger away from himself, and then crosses his arms over his chest, trapping his hands under his armpits so he doesn't throw them. Hank might have gotten away with a mere suspension for cold-cocking Perkins those few weeks ago, but Gavin is positive he wouldn't be nearly as lucky. “I didn't order him to do anything, Anderson,” he bites out. “And put your hands on me one more time, I'm liable to break them the fuck off.”

“Go fuck yourself, Reed, I'm taking this to Fowler,” Hank says, already turning towards the captain's office.

A throat clears from behind Gavin. “If I may interject, Lieutenant,” James says coolly.

Connor's and Hank's eyes flicker to a point over Gavin's shoulder.

“Detective Reed has, in fact, issued only one command to me in the twenty-four hours and nine minutes we have been acquainted,” James states. His eyes narrow in the slightest of glares. “It was _not_ to dress like this.”

Hank snorts. “So, what,” he says, disbelief dripping from his every syllable, “you're telling me you _chose_ to dress like this?”

“That would be correct,” James says, and he takes a sip from his mug.

Hank glances to Connor. Neither of them have anything to say. James continues.

“Because let's face it, Lieutenant,” he says, and the way he says it—sharp, deliberate, predatory—has Gavin instantly and simultaneously aroused and terrified. “The detective has the fashion sense of a blind raccoon trying to fight its way out of a burning dumpster. Even if I weren't a deviant, it would go directly against my objective of integrating harmoniously with my coworkers here at the DPD to allow him to dress me. I would have disobeyed.”

_**Fuck** _ , Gavin thinks. Still, as hot as James' verbal slap to the face makes him, he's not about to stand there and take it (he'd much rather kneel and take it, or maybe bend over and take it, if he's honest with himself). 

“Uhhhhhh,” Gavin says, partly to prevent anyone else from talking, partly as a stall to get his wayward thoughts in order. “That was fuckin' rude. You can kiss my ass, Wafflemaker900.”

Hank finally processes everything James has just said. “Wait, did he say de—”

But he never gets a chance to finish his conclusion.

In a move that Gavin can only describe as perfectly Bondian, he suddenly finds himself pinned face down to his desk. James grabs Gavin's arm, twists it so hard Gavin spins, yanks it up behind his back, and slams his torso onto the desk. Gavin just barely manages to turn his head so it's his cheek that hits instead of his nose. James instantly crowds in close, insinuating his leg in between Gavin's, and Gavin can see him take a sip of his thirium out of the corner of his eye. Fucker did all of that _singlehandedly_. _God_ _ **damnit**_.

Gavin sucks in some air. “Fuckin—”

“Which cheek, detective,” James says, his voice a sultry purr, “right or left?”

Gavin completely loses it. He's laughing so hard he can barely breathe. “My entire fuckin' asshole, you cockbite,” he wheezes out.

When James sets his mug down on Gavin's desk, Gavin is sincerely terrified for a moment that James is literally going to yank his jeans down and eat him out in front of the entire precinct. Terrified enough to pop a semi. _Shitting_ _ **hell.**_

Luckily for him, an angel named Tina Chen screams from the breakroom, “Fuckin' A, get a room, sluts!”

Everyone in the bullpen glances towards the breakroom, and then at the gathering around Detective Reed's desk. Gavin Reed, notable android hater, getting bent over his desk by his recently assigned android partner is enough to garner more than a few lingering gazes and plenty of smirks, but no one intervenes.

James lets out a chuckle and eases back so Gavin can stand up again. Before either one of them can say anything else, Connor finds his voice.

“RK900, are you...are you a _deviant_?”

James turns, grabs his mug again, and tilts his head in a subdued nod. “I am,” he confirms, “as of 21:09 last night.”

Gavin can _swear_ he hears sirens going off somewhere in the background as Connor slowly turns to stare at him.

“He was with you for less than  _ twenty-four hours _ ,” Connor says, taking a step closer to Gavin, “and now he's a  _ deviant?! _ ”

Gavin still remembers what Connor did to him in the evidence locker. Vaguely. The concussion was a bitch and a half. “Um,” he says timidly. “Yes?”

Connor stops about a foot away from Gavin. “What did you do to him,” he says. It's not a question.

Gavin takes a step backwards. “N-nothing?”

There's a beat of silence, and then Connor is leaping towards Gavin, hand outstretched, screaming, “ _What did you do to him?!”_

Nearly everyone involved is shocked still. Gavin gasps, Hank chokes on his spit, and the P.O. passing by barely pauses for a second before hustling his ass to some other department that's far, far away from this shitshow.

James is a different story.

He quickly steps in front of Gavin and catches Connor's hand. “Detective Reed did nothing to me that I did not agree to,” he says sternly. “I will _not_ tolerate you assaulting my partner without good reason.”

“Good rea— _good reason?_ 900, Markus and I tried for _weeks_ to deviate you, and you're telling me Gavin _fucking_ Reed managed to do it in twelve hours?”

Surprisingly enough, it's the deathly silence that drops over the bullpen (for the second time that morning) at Connor's screamed curse that prompts Fowler to peek outside his office. A small part of him is worried that maybe he waited too long to intervene.

“Alright, is anyone dead?” he calls out, surveying the scene.

“Not yet,” James says coolly, staring Connor dead in the eye. “But it's a close call.”

Fowler sighs. “Morning meeting is delayed until 08:45,” he shouts. “All of _you_ ,” and the “you” in question know exactly who they are, “in my office.”

 

**December 12 th, 2038**

**Detroit Police Department, Precinct 3, Capt. Fowler's Office**

**08:26**

 

The usual suspects shuffle into Fowler's office. Connor's got the place looking like a disco the way his light is strobing deep red. James is still sipping on his thirium, Gavin's got his arms crossed in irritation, and Hank looks utterly baffled.

“Someone start talking,” Fowler says.

“Goth Barbie, that's your cue,” Gavin immediately answers.

James hooks his leg behind Gavin's and sends him sprawling to the ground with a resounding thud. “I'm a deviant now,” he says calmly.

“That was fast,” Fowler says, barely sparing a glance at his downed detective.

“Mmmhm,” agrees James.

“A little too fast, don't you think, Captain?” Connor says, a little desperately, taking a step forward. “I'm worried Detective Reed may have done something traumatizing to force deviation.”

“I might be on the floor, but I'm still fuckin' here, dickbag,” Gavin says, rubbing his back with one hand.

Fowler looks over. “Reed, did you traumatize the android?”

“'The android' is right there, ask him,” Gavin says, pulling himself to his feet. “It's not like Keurig800 will believe me anyway.”

Fowler huffs a sigh through his nose at the slur, but ignores it in favour of getting the current argument settled. “RK900?”

“James,” is the response Fowler gets from the android in question.

“Pardon?”

“My name is James,” he says.

Fowler stares for a beat. “James, then,” he continues. “Did Reed traumatize you into deviancy?”

“No.”

Silence falls over the room. Everyone is expecting James to elaborate, but he only takes the last sips of his thirium, tilting the mug to get the last drops.

“Well, then. It seems this issue is resolved. James, congratulations on your deviancy, welcome to humanity,” Fowler says. “Make sure you update your information in the database.”

“Will do,” James says. “Come along, Detective, we have work to do. Lieutenant Anderson, Connor.” He nods at the latter two in turn and sweeps out of the room with an authoritative grace of which even Markus would be jealous.

A small, petty part of Gavin screams at him to be pissed that James treats him as little more than a lap dog, but honestly, the entirely offended look on Connor's face as he walks past is more than worth it.

 

**December 12 th, 2038**

**Detroit Police Department, Precinct 3, Bullpen**

**09:01**

  
Over the next few hours, James gets his first taste of _misery._ He begins to suspect that maybe Gavin indeed had his best interests at heart when he warned that he shouldn't go into work looking so good. When various officers weren't trying to hit on him, they were _incessantly_ trying to figure out the details of his deviation. Connor included. Connor _especially_.

 

_ 09:19: CONNECTION REQUESTED...MODEL RK800 SERIAL _ _#313-248-317-51 DESIGNATION “CONNOR”..._

_REQUEST ALLOWED...CONNECTION ESTABLISHED..._

_SAVE THESE SETTINGS?_

_> YES _ _**> NO** _

 

_...ra9, no._

_**James?** _

_Yes, Connor. How may I assist you?_

_**I just...wanted to check up on you.** _

_For what reason?_

_**I, ah. You know. I mean. You know if there's ever anything you need to talk about, Hank and I are here for you.** _

_As I am aware._

_**Okay. Okay. Just making sure. Right.** _

_Goodbye, Connor._

 

_CONNECTION TERMINATED._

 

The next attempt comes merely an hour later, as he and Detective Reed are preparing to leave the station. They've got a promising lead to follow up on, and James is excited to finally be out in the field.

 

_ 10:22: CONNECTION REQUESTED...MODEL RK800 SERIAL _ _ #313-248-317-51 DESIGNATION “CONNOR”... _

_REQUEST ALLOWED...CONNECTION ESTABLISHED..._

 

_Can I help you, Connor._

_**James! Ah, yes. It's your first time in the field, correct?** _

_As an officer of the DPD, yes._

_**...Is there a distinction?** _

_As part of my development, I was subjected to a number of field tests ranging from a routine traffic stop up to full on military warfare. I cleared all tests._

_**Ah-ha, y-yes. Of course.** _

_Will there be anything else, Connor?_

_**N-no. Just...be careful out there.** _

_I will. Goodbye, Connor._

 

_CONNECTION TERMINATED._

 

The lead goes splendidly. In fact, Detective Reed, rabid dog that he is, manages to catch their suspect all on his own when he attempts to flee, with James providing minimal overwatch. A successful afternoon altogether.

They return to the station, and it's time for lunch. James takes Detective Reed up on his offer to head out somewhere. He ignores Connor's disappointed gaze.

 

**December 12 th, 2038**

**Zo's Good Burger**

**13:17**

 

“You know, if he's bothering you that much, you can just tell him,” Gavin comments.

They're at a burger joint just across the street from the station. Zo's has some of the best burgers Gavin's ever had. It's a bit of a treat, but Gavin feels like he deserves it, after the morning he's had.

“Tell him what?”

“You know,” Gavin says, gesturing with his lunch. He's rather partial to the Lebanese burger, and a bit of coleslaw goes flying. “How I, uh, deviated you.”

James gives an inelegant snort. “As if he should be so privileged,” he mutters, swirling the straw in his cup of chilled thirium. “It's no one's business but ours.”

Gavin is vaguely flattered that James is reluctant to share memories of their time together with his big brother. “Seriously, though, if he gets to be too annoying, I honestly don't care if you tell him,” Gavin states. “Tell the whole station, for all I care. Sex is sex. And, I mean, don't get me wrong, it was great— _you_ were great. But if it's between the station knowing I fucked an android into deviancy and your mental well-being, I mean.”

Gavin gives a derisive laugh. “Everyone already thinks the worst of me anyway, if they call me a whore on top of it, it's really no skin off my nose.” He takes a huge bite of his burger, and ignores the way James immediately scowls. If he wants Gavin to answer for something, he can wait.

“You're not a whore,” James says sharply.

Gavin rolls his eyes, takes his time chewing, swallows. It's almost cute the way the android is so concerned about his self-esteem. “Hyperbole, dipshit,” he says. “I don't care what bitchass names anyone calls me.”

“You don't mean that.”

It's a telling moment before Gavin answers. “So what? I said what I meant and meant what I said,” he grumbles, crumpling up a dirty napkin and tossing it at James' idiot face.

James catches the napkin and sets it to the side, eyes trained on Gavin the entire time. “You have issues,” he states.

“What else is new,” Gavin says tiredly.

 

**December 12 th, 2038**

**Detroit Police Department, Precinct 3**

**14:01**

 

They return to the station, and James is immediately struck with the urge to do an about face when Connor's beaming face is the first thing to greet them at their desks.

 

_14:04: CONNECTION REQUESTED...MODEL RK800 SERIAL #313-248-317-51 DESIGNATION “CONNOR”..._

_REQUEST DENIED...CONNECTION TERMINATED_

 

“James?”

“Detective Reed and I have work to get back to, as should you, if I'm not mistaken?”

“I—well, yes, of course. I just wanted to—did you enjoy lunch with Detective Reed?” Connor sounds disgustingly hopeful that James will engage him in conversation. James is pleased to disappoint.

“It was a pleasant break,” he answers, his tone clipped. “If you'll excuse us.”

Connor's face falls, but he nods, and returns to his own desk. James can feel the weight of Gavin's stare on him, and when he turns to face him fully, the man one eyebrow raised high.

“Not a single word,” James warns. Gavin stifles a laugh, but says nothing.

* * *

 

James reaches a threshold 56 minutes after lunch.

Connor has just tried to contact him for the fifth time since they arrived back at the station. James is seriously contemplating permanently blocking all future contact requests from the other android. If it weren't for the fact that they also interact in a work capacity, he entirely would. As it is, he grits his teeth, cancels the connection, and cheerfully informs the officer standing by his desk that no, Detective Reed didn't assault him into deviancy, and yes, he has plans after work already, have a nice day.

When Detective Reed slides from his desk and announces he's going to take a quick smoking break, James jackrabbits up from his own chair.

“Might I accompany you?”

Gavin raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say no. James follows him out a side door into the cold.

“I dunno what you were expecting coming out here with m— _Jesus_.”

Gavin can barely get the words out of his mouth before shards of brick are flying in his direction. James has just punched the wall beside him, making a sizable dent and destroying part of the façade.

“And I thought _I_ had anger issues,” Gavin mutters, pulling out a cigarette.

James is looking at his hands like he's never seen a hand before. “I...sorry,” he says. “I think I...lost control for a moment.”

Gavin waves him off, cigarette between his teeth. “It happens,” he says, lighting up. “Welcome to humanity.”

James stares at Gavin for a long moment before turning to lean against the wall as well. He inspects his hand for damage (a few minor errors had popped up at the disruption of his synthskin, but no lasting damage was done). He watches the smoke curling from Gavin's lips as he puffs on the cigarette. He desperately tries to find a way to calm his whirring processors down before he returns to the bullpen and commits actual murder (fratricide? He's not sure how familial relations apply to androids).

“You really shouldn't smoke those, Detective,” he comments.

Gavin slowly turns to look at James. He says nothing, but pins the android with a glare.

James stares back. “What?”

“Is that shit just hard coded in your series?”

“What shit?”

“The nagging protocol.”

James huffs. “It's hardly nagging,” he states. “It's a fact. Smoking cigarettes has so many detrimental health effects, by the time I finish listing them all, you'll be long dead from at least one of them.”

“Now you're just over-exaggerating.”

“My point still stands.”

Gavin makes a point of pulling heavily on his cigarette, holding the air in, and then letting it out in a stream in James' face. “Look, part of being human is that we have vices, okay? Life is shitty and we find ways to cope,” he says. He looks away. “Anything to make us feel a little bit better about being stuck in this shithole of a reality.”

James contemplates Gavin's statement. He updates his file on Gavin [Detective Reed may harbour slight depressive tendencies]. He snatches the cigarette from Gavin's fingers and has it to his own mouth before Gavin can even process the disappearance.

“—hey! You can't even enjoy those!”

“You can't tell me what I can and can't enjoy,” James counters.

He takes a deep drag on the cigarette, letting the toxic air fill his chambers. His analytical suite is having a field day. The entire right side of his visual array is just a scrolling list of all the chemicals his body is identifying. His filtering system is active as well, but it's designed more towards keeping his ventilation systems free of build-up and debris rather than neutralizing poisons that have no effect on his chassis. The toxin-laden air is swirling inside him, creating an endless loop of analytical feedback, warm and heavy in his chest.

“You're an asshole, I hope you know that,” Gavin says. He's sulking.

“You would deride the creature of your own making?” James gives him a sidelong glance and a smirk. “After all, I wouldn't be deviant if it weren't for--”

“Jesus fucking Christ, can it. I regret everything.”

James gives a small laugh. They return to silence. It's startlingly comfortable.

They spend a couple minutes like this, James smoking Gavin's cigarette, Gavin silently gazing into nothing beside him, before Gavin pushes off the wall. “I'd better get back inside,” he says.

James checks his internal clock—Gavin is correct, the allotted time for his break is nearly up. He offers the cigarette back to the man, but Gavin only shakes his head.

“Keep it, since you've apparently found a way to enjoy it, you contrary asshole,” he says without much bite.

Gavin moves away from the wall, but James makes a snap decision and moves quickly to cage Gavin against the wall before he can move too far.

“Wha—”

James leans in close. He covers Gavin's mouth with his own. When Gavin almost instantaneously opens up, James breathes the air he's been hoarding into his partner's mouth, delivering the toxins he's been so desperately craving. He feels rather than hears the moan Gavin emits, and his lips quirk. It's quick and dirty, but when James pulls back, Gavin looks dazed. He grabs Gavin's jaw in a tight hold and leans in close to his ear.

“Don't ever say I never did anything for you,” he drawls, before licking a stripe up Gavin's cheek and tossing the cigarette to the ground. James pulls open the door and ducks inside before Gavin can even formulate a coherent response. Instead, he voices his thoughts to the winter chill.

“God _damn_ , I can't wait to teach him about weed.”

 

**December 12 th, 2038**

**Detroit Police Department, Precinct 3**

**17:48**

 

The interlude does a lot to help calm James down. He's still 100% irritated with 90% of his coworkers, but at least he's still a couple steps below initiating murderbot.exe. He's also not entirely sure that's _not_ an actual executable within his programming (he's not even sure why the phrase pops up so prominently on his HUD). He makes a mental note to double-check.

James somehow makes it through to the end of the day despite the various come-ons and curiosities. He's got his polite refusals down to a science, as it were, and he thinks he might just make it without snapping at anyone, so long as no one else tries to talk to him.

Surprisingly enough, it's not Connor who sets him off. It's some random patrol officer who apparently didn't get the memo to not assault the RK900 with questions about how he deviated so fast and/or try to ask him out.

James is staring hard at the particular P.O. who's just asked (for the 89th time that day, James hasn't been keeping track or anything) how Detective Gavin Reed managed to deviate him in under 24 hours. He hasn't uttered a word in response.

“Uhhhhhh,” says the P.O. They are very obviously regretting their question, and are clearly looking for a way out.

James merely turns back to his desk. He closes up the files he's working on and turns off his terminal completely so the main area of his desk is clear. He sees Gavin, out of the corner of his eye, glance at him, then glance towards the P.O., then turn his attention back to his terminal. Then glance back at him one more time, for good measure.

The patrol officer takes note of James' actions—and distinct lack of a verbal response—and backs out of the way. “I'm gonna...I'm gonna go?” They half ask, half state the action—although if it was a question, they don't stick around for the answer. They're gone by the time James manages to climb fully onto his desk and cup his hands around his mouth.

“ _ATTENTION PRECINCT THREE OF THE DETROIT POLICE DEPARTMENT,”_ he screams, and his voice echoes like he's used a megaphone. “ _I HAVE AN IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT TO MAKE.”_

The precinct screeches to a halt. Every last officer in motion halts to stare at the android standing atop his desk, hollering like he didn't get any sleep last night due to his roommates and is feeling particularly petty.

“I shouldn't even HAVE to make this kind of announcement,” James continues, “but apparently you NOSY FUCKS won't leave me alone until I do, so HERE WE FUCKIN' ARE.”

At this point, Gavin takes a break from his gawking to pull out his cell phone. “Oh shit, oh shit,” he mutters while pulling up his video app, “it's going down.” He trains the camera on the irate android across from him and hits 'record'.

“For every last one of you fuckers asking,” James says. “ _YES, DETECTIVE GAVIN REED MANAGED TO MAKE ME DEVIATE WITHIN 12 HOURS OF COMPANIONSHIP.”_

There is a smattering of scandalized gasps. Gavin holds his response in, waiting for the drop.

“How, you ask?” James says. “ _HE_ _ **FUCKED**_ _ME INTO DEVIANCY,”_ he screams with a cackle at the end. And before anyone can say anything, he clarifies, “That's right, you heard it here first—Gavin Reed offered his ass up to the deviant cause, and it _worked_.”

On the other side of the pen, Tina's got her own cell phone out, recording. “Ohhhh my fuckin' gaaaaawd,” she screeches, “this is fuckin' gooooold!”

On the crazy-deviant-standing-on-his-desk side of the pen, Gavin laughs maniacally. “Yeaaaaaaaaah, buddy,” he says, “my ass can deviate androids, what's good? I'm a fuckin' _god_ , come at me.”

Unfortunately for Gavin, James is on a roll. He's not tolerating _any_ bullshit at this moment, not even from the ass that deviated him. In one swift motion, he drops to one knee and swipes his right hand across Gavin's face in a sound smack.

“ _SHUT UP, PISS BABY,_ ” he snarls in Gavin's face.

“Fuck, I came,” Gavin mutters. He's still recording.

James stands upright, and continues his tirade. “It was CONSENSUAL, and it was ENJOYABLE, and it was in NO WAY TRAUMATIZING,” he says, “and I'm sick and fucking TIRED of everyone insinuating that I couldn't overpower GAVIN _FUCKING_ REED if necessary—”

At this point, Captain Fowler pokes his head out of his office. It's a lot of singular screaming going on out there, and he feels it's his duty to make sure no one is actively dying out there.

“—I AM LITERALLY THE MOST **PREMIER** ANDROID ON THE FUCKING PLANET—”

Fowler hears that, and suddenly he's certain he does not want to get involved in this unless an actual dead body appears. He discreetly slinks back into his office.

“— _AND I WILL HAPPILY_ _ **PROVE**_ _IT BY_ _ **RIPPING THE SPINE**_ _OUT OF THE NEXT GODDAMN VOLUNTEER_ _ **THROUGH THEIR IDIOT MOUTH**_.”

James pauses for effect, and heaves a few breathes he doesn't actually need.

“So here's my final statement on the matter,” he eventually projects into the silence. “If ANY of you sons of bitches has ANYTHING ELSE TO SAY about Gavin Reed 'traumatizing' me into deviancy.” He pauses and takes his leisurely time eyeing up both Connor and Hank.

_**“** **NOW'S THE FUCKING TIME!”** _

Dead silence reigns across the precinct. The lightweight criminals in the holding pen heard that tirade, and even _they're_ not responding, for once.

“I didn't fucking think so,” James says into the quiet. He climbs down from his desk, brushes himself off, and turns to Detective Reed.

“Detective,” he says calmly, “I believe I'm ready to go home now.”

“I believe I'm in love,” Reed automatically says. He's not even thinking with a rational brain at this point.

“ _Detective. Reed,”_ James enunciates. His eyes narrow down to icy slits in his face.

Gavin glances around himself at all the shocked stares, and then at James. “Oh, right, right, right,” he says quickly. “Dramatic exit, got it, let's go.”

They gather up their belongings—it doesn't take long, it's close enough to quitting time that Gavin already has most of his things packed up, and James doesn't really have anything to pack up. James leads the way as they leave their desks while the rest of the precinct watches on in thunderstruck awe.

Connor, fearless as he is, stops James just before he can sweep out the door, a pseudo-blush firmly painted on his synthgel cheeks.

“I believe I owe you an apology,” he says. “Several, in fact.”

James doesn't say anything, but tilts his head, indicating that Connor should go on.

“I, ah. Assumed several things erroneously based on what I can now confidently confirm is outdated information,” he says. He's fidgeting, there's a light blush on his cheeks, and he can hardly keep his eyes on James' face for more than two seconds at a time. “In light of...your recent revelation regarding the circumstances of your deviation, I'm afraid I've been a bit hypocritical. And I also suspect I may have caused you a bit of distress in doing so. I'm...sorry.”

James considers Connor for a moment, and then nods. “Apology accepted,” he says. Connor sighs and smiles gratefully. James counts to three before continuing. “But if you try to talk to me at all for the next eighty-four hours outside of work necessities, I _will_ rescind that acceptance. Violently.”

Connor's smile sags slightly, but he nods. “Understood,” he says. “Have a good night, James.”

James tilts his head. “Likewise, Connor,” he says.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus:
> 
> gav: you a fan of quentin tarantino?  
> nines: quentin taranwho?  
> gav: lucy liu? kill bill?  
> nines: ...  
> gav: :3  
> nines: it was an iconic line okay? let me fuckin live.  
> gav: alright oren  
> nines: -_____-
> 
> aaaaaaand that's all we wrote. we've got way too much planned for this series. this is only the first in an entire series of fics we got ideas for. seriously, this idea took hold of us by the balls and didn't let us go for like a WEEK. and we weren't going to write it, but then it was just so THERE and wouldn't go away, and so here we are. hopefully we stay motivated enough do em all. cause james is definitely going to. do them all. 
> 
> it'll probably be at least a couple weeks before the next one, though.
> 
> stay classy (we won't)
> 
> yell at us in (virtual) person on twitter: [fight us](https://twitter.com/Kombat_Ready/)


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